Demon Stories

Josephine: Red Poetry, 1884, France

Josephine

Red Poetry

1884, France

He lets his presence be known sometimes, and sometimes is too much. He is an insect let into my home of his own accord, one of which I wish to smack. However, as an insect, he is too quick and unseen. Appearing, and disappearing.

Today was one of those days.

Currently, I am awash in color. Oh blood red color. Strange thin petal'd mystery of deep centered question. 

Turning my head, my vanity is abloom in the crimson fullness of his gift. Bloomed and bloomed again, twenty thousand blooms it seems surround this peasant. This creature of the night many times again. Their red charm sends the heart into poetry, for red poetry is ablossom in my room. 

In a beauty of bundled bouquet, sits the tiering of a hundred hungry blooms positioned in front of the dreaded mirror. It is as if he knows. 

But what does he know? For my shivering heart is in grief. Does he know? Does he know what red roses mean to me? 

I feel as if I am seeing a ghost. A many faceted ghost, whose face is in every blossom, whose face is staring back at me. Looking at me. Dead smiling at me. Hopelessness staring back. His gesture of warmth only reminding me of another.

Sometimes I wonder if he knows. Does he know about my Andrew? Does he know how my Andrew used to call me the Red Rose?

It is an impossiblity. Yet he is impossiblity itself.

This creature who has arranged these blooms may as well be sitting here smiling at me. His presence is that weighted. The smell of the flowers dare to replace the position of their meaning in my heart, turned to him. Their crimson faces. His green eyes.

A red rose gift, given by a small stranger to another stranger nearly eighty years ago. A stranger is standing here in this room. The red flowers know it. The disturbed feeling in my heart given by them knows it. What became of the man whom I gave the red rose to so many years ago? Who stands here now? Would he recognize the one who stands here now?

There is a grave burden in my heart. Something I have not wanted in many years. 

With a cry which I do not recognize as my own, I feel the smooth glass vase on my hands and wrists, but not the weight. This monstrous strength. This monster standing in the room. The glass vase holding the blooms in front of the mirror is gone, shattered on the floor. I can barely recognize how it got knocked over, for I hardly recognize me as well.

Here is what I seek, in the mirror. Oh, the black streaks on my face. There have been tears, and I have not recognized. A strip of orange curled hair has come undone and lays on my cheek. The rouge has faded. The dress is blue tonight, with a bit of pearl. 

I do not want to look, but I can not lose focus. Would he recognize the creature in the mirror. I breathe in a sigh and look closely, staring as serious as a little sinner boy in church. Would he recognize me. Would Andrew recognize me, his Red Rose?

With a release of air, my shoulders relax. And suddenly it becomes clear. Staring at the red roses standing behind me in the mirror, it becomes clear. A new focus, replacing the unclear.

I am the little sinner boy in the church. Still. 

He would recognize me. I am grown up, but he would recognize me. I am just the same as always. He loved me, no matter who I was. I am still his red rose, no matter how I've bloomed. 

With these words in my heart, I fall down to the floor. The water from the shattered vase quickly goes through my dress and many undergarments. Everything is wet, but I don't care.

This other, the insect who has sent the roses. Is he such a bad insect? Perhaps he is a butterfly? A giver of good things. Sweet things, in my time of need.

I lay my head down on the hard wood, and when I open my eyes again, I no longer see my room. Instead, it is a forest of red roses. They are as if floating in the air alone. It is a forest of good feeling and glad faces. They peer down at me, smiling.

They tell me, it does not matter who you are, my dear. You are a red rose. A beautiful red rose.

They tell me I am loved.